The Meaning of Life
by TheSherlockianGoddess
Summary: Sherlock struggles to overcome the pain he's dealt with his entire life, John at his side. Will the two discover that they need each other to survive? Warning: graphic self harm and drug content. And eventually smut!
1. The Sociopath With a Breaking Heart

**Warning: Graphic Self Harm and Drug References**

**I don't own the characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but these versions are Mark Gatiss's and Steven Moffat's. I simply get to play.**

The "Sociopath" with a Breaking Heart

Sherlock heard the pitter patter of rain on the roof of 221B. It soothed his aching some, he had always loved rainy days. He wasn't sure why, the rain had no significance in his life. It was just something that tended to happen on particularly painful days. It was like the sky cried for him. After all, he was a sociopath, right? Sociopaths don't feel emotions, right?

Sherlock liked to call himself a sociopath, but he very well knew that he wasn't one. He thought that maybe a few others, besides his annoying older brother, Mycroft, might secretly know that he wasn't a sociopath. Like his flatmate and best friend John Watson, or maybe his landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Maybe even DI Gregory Lestrade knew it. But to the rest of the world, he was a high-functioning sociopath.

He could easily pass off as one. He was very good at hiding his emotions, therefore he was good at pretending that he didn't have them. But Sherlock most definitely had emotions. On the outside, his mask of indifference sat in the same position every day, but on the inside, he was screaming. He screamed because of his boredom, because of his sadness, his demons, his darkness, and because his heart was slowly wasting away. It was like pieces of it were rotting and wilting and peeling painfully away, leaving open wounds that would never heal. That was Sherlock's version of vulnerability. Some days, it was manageable. Others, he locked himself in his room with a razor blade, a syringe, and a rag covered in floor cleaner.

Sherlock gazed at himself in his floor length mirror. He was shirtless, his dressing gown hanging from his shoulders, tracing the shadows that his rib bones cast on his skin. He was unhealthily skinny, but refused to eat because it slowed his thought process. Looking up at his face, he saw the shadows his cheek bones cast, saw the sunken in skin of his eyes from restless nights of unstoppable thinking and constant hurting. He looked at the curly mop of raven colored hair, always untamed. He saw the full lips, beautiful, but chapped and raw from constant worrying. He saw the dull pallor of his skin. He was almost grayish. He had to admit that the direction his life was going would kill him someday. He was so malnourished and sleep deprived that he could pass as a patient of a psychiatric ward. It was unattractive.

_Just another thing to hate about myself, _he thought. He turned away from his reflection, biting back the tears that continued to well up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He willed them back, but it was too late for them to return to the dominion from which they had come. They rolled down his cheeks unrelentingly, letting out a small portion of his heartache, but not enough to calm it for the next several weeks to come. He glanced back at his reflection, and all he could see were the _scars. _They were white and pink against his grayish skin. Some were larger than others, some were from a razor blade, and some were from the needles. The scars reminded Sherlock of the words he had said to John not three days before. "Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them," he had snapped. Yes. Sherlock Holmes was not a hero.

He shifted his gaze to the syringe full of heroin on his night table. His brain fought with itself, needing the heroin, but struggling for dominance over his condition. He stood still, staring at it, for a good ten minutes, but in the end, he gave in. He glided over to his night table and picked the thing up, rolled up the left sleeve of his blue silk dressing gown, and slid the needle into his arm until the hub touched the crease in his elbow. He almost groaned with relief when he pressed down on the plunger, the drug coursing through his veins. He slowly removed the needle from his arm, feeling dizzy with pleasure. The heroin made him numb and sleepy, a feeling that made him content. He sat on his bed swaying for about five minutes, and then decided that the heroin wasn't enough. He picked up his razor blade, reveling in the cool kiss of the steel to his skin. He pushed, with caution, into his arm and dragged the blade down, opening up a long red gash on his forearm. He did it again and again, on both arms, until his hunger for pain was satiated. He sunk to the floor slowly, feeling the blood roll down his arms, drip away to form beautiful scarlet teardrops on his bedroom floor. He looked at them with wonder and awe, remembering the the stuff pouring from his veins was what kept him alive. He felt his tears begin to form again, and he allowed them to fall this time. He wept silently, knowing that his life was falling apart before his very eyes, but not knowing how to stop it. His tears joined the ever increasing amount of blood droplets on the floor, causing it to swirl into varying shades of red and pink. Sherlock buried his face in his hands, shoving his head between his knees, as if it would keep out the darkness. He sat still for what seemed like an immeasurable amount of time, sobbing quietly, wishing that his pain would just disappear.

He had lost it. He had lost the fight. He knew that he couldn't have won, knew that the syringe and blade would come back to haunt him sooner or later. But he had worked for a month, just keeping those two things from his mind. In a moment of frustration, he stood up and hurled his lamp across the room, letting out a tortured yell and shattering the mirror with it. He collapsed face forward onto his bed, weeping audibly now.

There was a knock at the door. _"Sherlock? Are you alright?"_

John. Of course it was John, the ever sensitive doctor, only willing to see the good in people. Sometimes Sherlock found his concern nice, like someone actually cared. Other times, he wished John would just go away. Sherlock didn't want to drag him into the mess that was his life.

Another knock. _"Sherlock? What happened? Are you okay?"_

John was met with only silence on the other side of the door. He began to panic, frantically pounding on the door.

_"Sherlock? What the bloody hell is going on? Are you alright in there? Do I need to call the paramedics? If you don't answer, I bloody well will."_

At John's threat, Sherlock managed to choke out, "I'm fine."

_"Then what was the loud crash that I heard? Even Mrs. Hudson came up!"_

"The lamp...er...I knocked it over," he spoke semi-convincingly.

_"Sherlock, will you let me in? Just so I can assess the damage?"_

"Erm...no...I'm not...erm...I'm not wearing any clothes," Sherlock struggled for a reasonable excuse.

_"Sherlock, we're both men. I don't really care whether or not you're naked." _John began jiggling the doorknob to see whether or not the bolt would come loose. When it wouldn't, he started shouldering the door, hoping that it wouldn't take too long to open.

"No, John! I wouldn't do that if I were you. I'm not in the best state right-" Sherlock began, but never finished because John had busted the door in.

"I don't bloody care if you're not in the best state. I just want to know that you-" John shouted as he walked in, but stopped at the sight of the scene in front of him.

John could only gape. There was a broken lamp as well as a shattered mirror in one corner of the room, a razor blade on the floor among the drying blood droplets, a used syringe on the night table, and a bloody, red eyed Sherlock sitting on the bed.

"John, I can explain. See the thing is-" but Sherlock never finished his thought. He was too busy trying to catch a sobbing John Watson as he collapsed.

_I hope you enjoyed! This is my first fic ever posted, so feel free to leave feedback so that I know what you hope to be better for the next chapter!_


	2. Starting Over

**I don't own the characters. They originally belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but these versions are Mark Gatiss's and Steven Moffat's. I simply get to play.**

_Again, feedback is taken well. Thanks to ticklethedragon1 for the positive reinforcement! Enjoy the chapter! Next one will be out soon. :)_

Starting Over

Sherlock had seen his fair share of the harder parts of life in his, well, lifetime. Mangled and decapitated corpses, the deaths of people he loved, being cast out of society, and his own struggle with depression. It was all horrific and hard to see, but it was what he lived with on a daily basis. So he could handle it all. Or he had assumed. The one thing he realized that he could not handle was John Watson's crying, especially when he knew that it was his fault.

Sherlock held John awkwardly, whispering, "John, it's okay. I'm okay." His blood leakage had slowed gradually, and it had finally begun to clot around the wounds. They were puffy and they stung, but it was bearable. John continued his sobbing as Sherlock cradled him in his arms on the bedroom floor. The tang of salt and rust filled the air. "It's alright John. I'm okay. There's no need for you to cry."

"You...bleeding...hurt...WHY!?" John spoke between sobs.

"Sorry, come again?" Sherlock said, concealing the grin tugging at his lips. John was always so put together. It was strange seeing him at a loss for words.

John stopped crying just long enough to say, "Sherlock, you're purposefully hurting yourself! Look at all of this blood!" At the last word, John began weeping again.

Sherlock's grin faded immediately upon comprehending John's words. He glanced around the room. He saw broken glass, his reflection still able to be made out. Oh. The blood. He was a mess. The floor was a mess. It was _everywhere. _There was so much of it. Sherlock couldn't help the grimace that contorted his features. Even though he knew it was a lie, Sherlock began, "John, look, there's no need to worry. It's really not-" but John cut him off.

"Not that bad? Were you just going to say _not that bad? _Sherlock, don't you bloody tell me it's not that bad! You have a serious mental health condition. Have you taken a look at yourself in the mirror recently?" John's sadness had morphed into anger, he was yelling at Sherlock for something that he couldn't control. Sherlock automatically released John and curled in on himself, throwing his barriers back up. They sat silently until John could take it no more. "Why Sherlock? Why do you do it?" John said tiredly; he had forfeit the fight.

"I...I'm not quite...sure, really. I just have all of this pain inside that is too much for me to bear sometimes. I feel like a monster, like I'm not human. So, I guess I kind of...hurt myself on the outside to...to kill the monster inside." Sherlock's eyes stung with tears again; they began to spill free without permission.

John sighed. "Sherlock..." he mumbled, then pulled the consulting detective into a hug.

Sherlock allowed himself to be hugged, but he turned away. _Stupid, stupid, _he thought. _How could I let John see me like this? _Sherlock wiped his tears away, took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and gently removed himself from John's embrace.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John asked, somewhat hurt.

Sherlock just stared at him blankly, his thoughts racing. And then he realized that he couldn't do it. It was impossible to keep himself together at a moment like this, so he flung himself at John and wailed in his arms.

"Shh, Sherlock. It's alright. I'm here. I'm here for you, no matter what. Sherlock, it's okay. You'll be okay. Shh," John gently hushed the detective. After about ten minutes, Sherlock began to quiet down, and in another five, he managed to sit up.

"Sherlock, I may be your best friend, but I'm also a doctor. You have a serious condition, and you need to stop the self harm and drug use. What if you overdose one day, or you cut too deep? Can you imagine how devastated I would be?" John asked, fear evident in his eyes.

Sherlock was silent. He didn't know how to respond. No one had ever seemed to care about him as much as John did.

"I...no. I can't John. I need it to live, and if I die one day, oh well. It will be my own bloody fault, and no one will miss me all that much." Sherlock spoke into his dressing gown sleeve, trying to hide the hurt that was clearly visible in his facial features.

"Sherlock, you know that's not true. You're my best mate. I think that I would have to move out of 221B, it would be so hard to handle your death. And that's saying something, 'cause I love this place," John said in his loving manner.

Sherlock was speechless. He didn't think that anyone had ever called him their best mate. He felt warm and tingly inside, and he couldn't help the slight smile that came to his lips.

John saw Sherlock's face change, so he took the chance to plead with Sherlock for his abstinence from drugs and self harm.

"Sherlock, I know the road will be bumpy ahead. I know that it will be hard to quit a habit that you've lived with for so long, but you need to do it. I will be here with you through everything, even if you relapse. I won't give up on you Sherlock Holmes. Do you understand?"

Sherlock took a minute to process John's words, and another one to come up with a reply.

"John, I don't think-" he began, but was interrupted.

"Sherlock, I believe in you. I believe that you can stop. Please stop. For me. Please, just for me. To make your best mate happy," John begged Sherlock, on the brink of tears again.

Sherlock hesitated, looking at John's face. That was all John wanted of Sherlock, for him to stop hurting himself. It was a simple request. Could he do it?

"I...I suppose that I could...try, I guess."

"Oh Sherlock! Thank you. Thank you so much!" John hugged Sherlock again, giddiness spreading through him.

John and Sherlock just held each other like that for about ten minutes. Right when John was about to let go, Sherlock whispered, "Thank you, John."

John gave his friend a little squeeze.

"Any day, Sherlock."


	3. Moving Forward, or Stepping Back?

**I don't own the characters. They are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's, but these versions are Mark Gatiss's and Steven Moffat's. I simply get to play.**

_A/N: Okay guys. Here's chapter three. It's longer than the rest, and it took forever to write, but at least I got it done. Tell me what you guys think so far, and feedback is always welcome! On that note, enjoy chapter three!_

Moving Forward, or Stepping Back?

It had been almost three weeks since John had witnessed Sherlock in his worst possible state. Sherlock had willingly given up his razor blades, but John had to confiscate the drugs. It seemed that Sherlock had more track marks than razor scars, so he obviously was more of a drug addict than a self harm one. Even though John had everything that Sherlock could possibly hurt himself with, he still kept a close eye on the detective and periodically checked Sherlock's favorite hiding spots.

Sherlock found John's constant watch on him annoying. He was like a hawk stalking it's prey. It was extremely unnecessary and tedious, in his opinion. Sherlock had to ask John for his shaving razor, and John would stand in the bathroom to make sure he didn't try anything. After he would finish shaving, John would take the razor back and hide it in his room somewhere. Sherlock could only roll his eyes.

What was extremely annoying to Sherlock was the temporary house arrest that he was put under. No experiments, no cases, no whipping dead bodies until John saw some improvement. In Sherlock's mind, he was improving, but he didn't know how to show John. So, while he was stumped in the way of finding proof that he was feeling better, he was either stuck at home or forced to go with John to the surgery.

Sherlock hated the surgery. He couldn't observe John doing his work, that would violate the HIPAA laws, and John had told him not to deduce anyone's life story because they would freak out and either call the cops or hit him. Or even cry. Sherlock was stuck in the nursing home with the old people, eating mashed potatoes and playing checkers. The old people were annoying. They yelled too much because of their failing hearing, they talked about their children too often, and they never remembered anything. Sherlock decided that sometimes, their life stories were interesting, but for the most part, they bored him to death. Sherlock was stuck there every day besides Saturdays and Sundays for a month. After that first month was up, John finally let him stay home alone. Sherlock practically jumped for joy.

The first Monday in March came around, and John left for work at nine o'clock in the morning, as usual. As soon as Sherlock heard the door of their flat click shut, Sherlock jumped out of bed and immediately slapped a nicotine patch on his arm. He felt energized almost instantly and decided to go downstairs to pick up on his experiments. He had so much work to get done and so little time to do it.

He began his day by taking a cab down to St. Bartholomew's Hospital Morgue, where he took home a jar of eyeballs, a bag of thumbs, and a dismembered head. As soon as he got back to 221B, he put the head in the refrigerator, as well as the thumbs. He stuck the eyeballs in the microwave and let them sit in it on high for five minutes, recording the data as the time ran out. His finished result was several popped eyeballs and three intact optic nerves among the eyeball mush. He took the time to examine each one under his microscope, recording the differences and similarities of the nerves. He concluded that two of them were from the same subject, deceased three days ago, and one from a young female, he guessed, deceased twelve hours before.

Sherlock put the nerves in formalin and stuck them in the fridge. He them proceeded to peel the skin off of the thumbs to study the bone structure, concluding that every thumb was slightly different. He decided that he'd work on the head the next day because he was tired of dead bodies already.

Sherlock sat on the couch and stared at the wall with his hands steepled under his chin until John stepped through the door.

"How was your day?" John asked anxiously.

"Mm," Sherlock replied, deep in thought.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm."

"Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock asked, annoyed now. He had been busy trying to determine the cause of death of the optic nerve subjects.

"How was your day," John asked again, enunciating each word.

"Fine," Sherlock replied curtly.

John walked up to the couch and inspected Sherlock thoroughly, pulling up his shirtsleeves and pant legs. No cuts or new track marks. John sighed with relief. Sherlock just yanked himself away from him and turned into the couch to sulk. John snickered.

John began walking to the refrigerator; he was hungry after his long shift at the surgery. _I better be getting payed overtime, _he thought to himself.

"Want anything to eat?" John asked his flatmate politely, knowing that the answer would be no.

Sherlock didn't reply.

John opened the refrigerator door, and closed it almost immediately. He looked down, trying not to get sick on his shoes.

He took a deep breath and opened the door again, staring straight into the eyes of the decapitated head in front of him. He once again closed the door.

"Is that a head?" John questioned.

"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock said monotonously, ignoring John's question.

"Is that a bloody head in the fridge?" John nearly shouted.

"I'm performing an experiment. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

John just shook his head and returned to the kitchen to order take-away and make tea. After his dinner and tea, John went to bed while Sherlock typed away on his laptop. John smirked at the detective, shouted, "Goodnight," and went off to bed. He had dozed off after about ten minutes, dreaming about a happy Sherlock.

John woke up to a shrieking violin, clearly being abused by Sherlock. He rubbed his eyes and groggily looked at his watch. It was three twenty-two in the morning. John groaned and stuck his head under a pillow. "Four more hours," he muttered, then dozed off again.

o0o

It had been three days since John had begun leaving Sherlock at home. In those three days, Sherlock had managed to burn the floor trying to set fire to a cactus, scare John out of his skin with a dismembered head in the fridge, almost kill John with tainted butter, and blow up half of the items in the kitchen, as well as leave a stinking cloud sitting in the house for days to come. John had managed to live with everything that had happened, until Sherlock decided that he was going to record John's breathing pattern while he slept. As soon as he had woken up with a pair of gray-blue eyes in his face, he knew that he needed to talk to Sherlock about his behavior.

"Sherlock, we need to talk," John told him, early Friday evening. John had had the day off.

"What about," Sherlock responded, clearly uninterested.

"Sherlock, I know you're angry with me for dragging you to the surgery and for watching you like a hawk ever since the drug and self harm incident, but if you keep on doing these experiments, Mrs. Hudson is going to kick us out of 221B. Can you please find a way to get back at me without blowing up the flat?"

"I suppose," Sherlock replied quietly, his mind caught on a new thought.

John watched him for a few minutes, then asked, "Are you okay? Sherlock?"

Sherlock automatically broke out of his reverie. "Fine, John. Really." He gave his most convincing smile.

John grinned back. "Good. Then, lets have dinner."

John and Sherlock ate left over Thai take-away while they watched crap telly. John conversed with Sherlock, the detective paying attention, but actually focusing his brain on something else.

"Alright Sherlock, I'm getting sleepy," John said with a yawn. "I think I'm going to hit the sheets."

"Okay. I think I may actually follow tonight," Sherlock responded.

John gave a tired smile. "Now that's a good lad. Night Sherlock."

"Goodnight John."

They parted ways, Sherlock striding to his room while listening to John climb the steps to his. Sherlock shut the door to his room and created an elaborate scheme as to how he would get his drugs back from John's room the next day. Sherlock had found it easier to stop the cutting, he didn't feel that he needed it as much as he needed the drugs. Yes. The drugs. Sherlock found himself dizzy with want, and dozed off thinking of his heroin.

The next morning, Sherlock actually ate breakfast, just to please John and keep him off of his tail about something not seeming right. They chatted over eggs and toast, and then went back to their rooms to get dressed. Sherlock had naturally made it back the the living room before John, startling the army doctor when he walked in.

John grabbed his coat off of the rack next to the door. "I'm going to head out to pick up groceries. Are you going to be okay here alone?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was fine here all week last week."

"Just checking. Be back soon." With that, John swiftly stepped out the door and shut it quietly.

As soon as Sherlock heard the heavy door at the front of the building shut, he scrambled up from the couch and ran to John's room. Normally, Sherlock would have taken time to pick the lock so as not to make his intruding so evident, but this time, he was so needy for his drugs that he kicked down the door.

John hid his things in such obvious places; Sherlock found the heroin in his sock drawer. He picked up one of the syringes and ran back to the living room. He held it in his hand and stared at it, watching the amber colored liquid slosh back and forth in the barrel. He was so wrapped up in watching the heroin that he almost missed the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He froze for a minute, and then he struggled to pull up his shirtsleeve before John stepped through the door. He was too late though.

"Sorry, forgot my-" John started, but shut up abruptly when he saw Sherlock with the syringe. They stood there, staring at each other for approximately five and a half seconds before John lunged at Sherlock, pushing him to the ground. The syringe fell from Sherlock's hand and rolled several inches away from the two of them.

Both men struggled to reach the heroin, but Sherlock had longer arms, so he got it first.

"No! Sherlock, you're better than this! You're doing so well, don't give up now! Hand me the heroin!" John and Sherlock rolled around on the floor, kicking and hitting each other, John trying to pry the syringe from Sherlock's death grip.

"Sherlock!" John yelled.

"No!" Sherlock shouted back.

"SHERLOCK!"

"NO!"

John had had enough of their petty cat fight, so he drew back his right arm and punched Sherlock square in the cheek with as much force as he could muster. Sherlock dropped the syringe, all thoughts of a fantastic high wiped from his mind. His best friend had just hit him.

Sherlock's hand flew to his face while John rolled off of him, picked up the heroin, and ran to the sink. When Sherlock took his hand away, his fingertips were stained scarlet. He turned his head just in time to see John plunge the amber liquid into the sink while he ran the cold water. John discarded the syringe and came to Sherlock's aid as soon as he possibly could.

Sherlock had his hand pressed to his face, stopping the blood flow. He glared when John came into view.

"You hit me!" Sherlock accused, pouting like a toddler.

"Sorry mate. Had to stop you from shooting up. Move your hand."

"No," Sherlock pouted.

"Sherlock, stop being a child. Let me see."

Sherlock slowly moved his hand. The cut wasn't too bad; the blood had already stopped flowing.

"Well, good news is you don't need stitches. Let me go get some ointment and an ice pack. I'll be right back," John said, the doctor visible in him.

Sherlock moved to sit on the couch; John joined him a few minutes later. Once Sherlock was all doctored up and holding the ice pack to his face, John turned the telly on a random channel, neither paying attention. They sat in silence for what seemed like forever.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock had spoken out of the blue.

"S'alright mate. Me too."

"It's okay," Sherlock replied.

"Feeling better?" John asked. Sherlock just nodded.

They were silent once again, watching the program on the telly.

"John?" Sherlock said.

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Thanks. Again."

John smiled.

"Any day, Sherlock."


	4. A Second Glance

**Disclaimer: Original characters belong to Sir ACD, but these versions are Mark Gatiss's and Steven Moffat's. I just get to play.**

_A/N: Sorry it's been a couple days guys. I was having trouble thinking of the content for this chapter. But here it is. I must note that I'm headed up to Oregon for my Aunt's funeral service and to help take care of her property and belongings for a few days, so there may not be another chapter for a while. I hope you guys enjoy this one. Feedback is always welcome! Enjoy!_

A Second Glance

It had been another month since the fiasco with the heroin. John had taken the liberty to plunge out the rest of Sherlock's three syringes filled with the stuff, even though Sherlock no longer seemed interested in it. Sherlock had been rather cheery of late; he ate breakfast and dinner every day and he slept during the designated sleeping time. He was more interested in what John had to say, and he kept his rude remarks to a minimum. John was utterly and completely befuddled by Sherlock's behavior.

Sherlock hated being kind, he hated eating and sleeping, but he did it all to please John. After all, John had saved Sherlock's life in a way. He felt like he owed John his gratitude and tried his best to be gracious in John's presence. Sherlock would have liked to deny it, but he also felt abnormal emotions toward the doctor, ones he had never before explored. No matter how often he told himself that sentiment and love were a liability, he couldn't help but love the doctor. _Look at me. The great Sherlock Holmes falling in love with an ordinary man, _Sherlock thought.

Although, that was the thing. John wasn't ordinary. He was sweet, loving, confident but vulnerable, and ever so handsome. Sherlock loved John's striped jumpers. They stirred the fleshy anatomy just below his abdomen. It was unnatural for Sherlock, but it was not unpleasant. In fact, he found himself fantasizing about John when he wasn't focused on a case and touching the straining erection just underneath his pants.

Now, Sherlock had never dated anyone, never even felt sentimental about another human being. He had been the only one that mattered; the rest of the world could rot away for all he cared. Until now. Sherlock needed to be in John's presence. It soothed him; he felt alive around John. The only problem was that he didn't know how to tell John. He dropped subtle hints with new cologne, tight shirts, and even lingering touches, but it seemed that John just couldn't pick up on Sherlock's affections.

"Or he's already noticed and isn't interested," Sherlock grumbled to himself as he rolled over in bed. He decided that he would tell John once he woke up; he was drowning in his feelings and didn't know how much longer he could take it.

Sherlock rolled out of bed and strode to the kitchen, quickly whisking up crepe batter and frying it, creating perfectly brown crepes, one of John's favorite things. He thinly sliced a variety of fruits and put a bowl full of yogurt on the table. He also put out some powdered sugar and whipped cream, just for John. Sherlock stuck the crepes in the oven to stay warm and flounced over to the couch. He plopped down with a loud sigh, his hands steepled under his chin. He glanced back and forth between the stairs to John's room and the breakfast on the table.

Sherlock was there for a good fifteen minutes before John walked into the living room.

"Haaaauuung," John yawned.

The detective's face lit up as soon as he saw John.

"Good morning," Sherlock said with a smile.

John started, smiling back after realizing it was just Sherlock.

"Morning," John said, rubbing his eyes.

"I made breakfast." Sherlock glanced nervously at the table.

"Oh goody. What is it?"

"Crepes." Sherlock beamed proudly.

"Yum," John said with a smile, licking his lips. It turned Sherlock on.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock said, "Shall we?"

John nodded, and they walked into the kitchen.

Sherlock pulled John's chair back, pushing it in once John had seated himself comfortably. Sherlock took the crepes out of the oven and set them on the table. He went back to the cabinets to get out two plates and two glasses. He also took out a fork and knife for each of them, setting the table as he went.

"Orange juice or milk?" Sherlock asked with a shy smile.

"Orange juice, I think," John responded warmly. What the hell was up with Sherlock? And why was John warm and tingly inside?

Sherlock took out the orange juice carton, carefully pouring it into both glasses. Once he was done, he capped the carton and stuck it back in the fridge. He swiftly pulled out his chair and sat himself down. He grinned happily at John and dug into his breakfast.

John just sat there staring at Sherlock as he ate. _My flatmate is clearly trying to kill me, _he thought. He vowed not to eat the crepes, they were most likely one of Sherlock's experiments. They sure did look good.

"John?" Sherlock questioned, stopping John's thought process.

"Hmm?" John replied.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"Oh, yeah," John lied. They sat staring at each other. _Oh, what the fuck, _he thought.

John took two crepes and filled them with yogurt, strawberries, and powdered sugar. He rolled them up and put a dollop of whipped cream on top of both, beginning his feast.

"Mm, Sherlock, these are really good," John swallowed a mouthful of crepe and then beamed.

Sherlock blushed and looked down at his food. "Thank you John."

"No, thank _you!_" John exclaimed.

Sherlock turned a darker shade of pink and picked at his food to distract himself.

Once they had finished their breakfast, Sherlock cleared everything away and washed all of the dishes while John turned on the telly. Sherlock joined him on the couch not long after John had sat down. They sat watching the program in silence, Sherlock's thoughts in turmoil.

_Okay, _he thought. _Now would be a good time to talk to John about your feelings. _

"Umm, John?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Yes Sherlock?" John replied absentmindedly.

Sherlock turned off the telly impatiently. "John, we need to talk."

_Uh-oh, _John thought. "What about, Sherlock?" John kept his eyes trained on Sherlock's.

Sherlock laid his hands atop John's, the gesture taking John and himself by surprise. John's eyes widened measurably.

"Umm, John, I'm new to this since I've never been in a relationship. In fact, I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to be saying right now. But, I want you to know that my feelings for you have grown over the past two months, and I think I would be interested in giving dating a try, as long as you're okay with it." Sherlock exhaled loudly; he had been speaking very quickly and high in pitch.

John just looked at him, not sure what to say. He found himself trying not to laugh, but his giggles escaped him. "You can't be serious Sherlock. There's no way you could fall in love. You just don't work that way." He continued to laugh at Sherlock's advance.

Sherlock's face changed almost instantly, going from an expression of hopefulness to one of hurt. He drew his hands away. "I am being serious John." Sherlock's voice cracked at the end. John had rejected him, and he had to admit that he was more than just a little disappointed.

Sherlock's facial change had silenced John's giggling immediately. _He can't be serious, _John thought. But it was evident in the way the consulting detective held himself that John's words had deeply wounded him. "Oh..." John was at a loss for words. He had never been with a bloke before. Well, there weren't all that many women around in the military, so there was a lot of pent up sexual frustration. So he had been there and done that, but he had never been in a committed relationship with one. John looked away. He had actually hurt Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock cleared his throat, back to his mask of indifference. "I'm sorry John. I thought that you might be open to trying something new with me, but I clearly misread you. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I apologize for my inappropriate advance. I ask you to forget what just happened and we can carry on being flatmates." And with that, Sherlock stalked off to his room.

John could only sit there and gawk at what had just transpired between the two men. He ran up to his room to get dressed. He needed some fresh air and time alone to think about things. He scribbled something on a sticky note quickly and ran back down stairs. He grabbed his coat and slapped the sticky note on the fridge. He hustled out of 221B and into the morning air of London.

o0o

Sherlock heard John exit the building in a rush. He felt bad for making John uncomfortable. He left his room and went to the fridge, knowing that John had left some explanation for Sherlock in his hurry to get away. Sherlock plucked the note off of the fridge and read it.

_Sherlock,_

_I'm very sorry for hurting your feelings. I've gone out to think about things. I will be back before dinner._

_Sincerely,_

_John_

Sherlock sunk down to the floor and began to cry softly.


	5. Breaking Means Mending

**Warning: Suicide attempt**

**Disclaimer: Original characters belong to Sir ACD, but these are Steven Moffat's and Mark Gatiss's. I simply get to play.**

_A/N: I know it's been forever guys, and I'm really sorry about that. I was in Oregon for longer than I had expected to be. Anyway, it was hard to write this chapter, so I don't doubt that it'll be hard to read as well. But at least the end is sweet. I swear this is the last sad chapter for a while. After this, it's on to the lovey dovey Johnlock stuff. Anyway, enjoy! Feedback is always welcome. :)_

Breaking Means Mending

_Stupid, _thought Sherlock. He knew that emotions and feelings were a distraction. And he knew that John's rejections shouldn't have hurt him as bad as it had. But it did. Sherlock's face was puffy and red as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Tears continued to roll down his face, his choked sobs escaping every once in a while. He had only managed to take twenty-seven Advil. He had hoped to take at least fifty, but his body betrayed him on the twenty-eighth. He had begun to throw them back up, so he had dropped the bottle as he ran away, the pills scattering all across the room.

_Stupid. I allowed myself to feel, knowing that there would be disappointment, and now I'm going to kill myself because of it. _Sherlock had already tried to talk himself out of it. He had gone from "I'm fine" to desperately pleading with himself to let go of the kitchen knife in his hands. He was sweating and hyperventilating, and though it was mostly the medicine's effects, Sherlock knew deep down that he was also afraid. He didn't know what to do or what to expect. He just knew that in the end, he wanted to die. Not a long, slow, and painful death, but a swift one. Unfortunately, since Sherlock wasn't in his right mind, he didn't know what was quick and simple as to what would be drawn out and agonizing.

_Last chance Holmes, _he thought to himself. _Last chance to put the knife down and walk away. _He tried, struggled to let go of the knife, but he just couldn't do it. Sherlock looked at the clock above the mirror. It read 9:33 PM. He walked over to the bath and laid himself down in the lukewarm water, leaving his pants on, and slit his wrists. The blood came pouring out instantly, dying the water a deep red color. Sherlock had been expecting pain, but instead, he was comfortably numb. He closed his eyes, willing himself to die.

o0o

John wandered aimlessly around the busy streets of London, not knowing what to do or think, or even where to go. He was astonished. Astonished by Sherlock's advance and by his own reaction to it. John had actually been quite flattered, he enjoyed being the object of Sherlock's interest since it seemed that there had never been anyone else. Why he had laughed at his flatmate was beyond him. But in the end, he had inevitably hurt Sherlock. He wasn't going to go out with his flatmate. That would be weird.

_Or would it? _John asked himself. Before, he would have pushed his gay fantasies away, but Sherlock was, well, Sherlock. He was different. He wasn't just any bloke, he was _Sherlock. _John supposed that he should go back and apologize, but he couldn't bring himself to do it until he was sure about what was happening to his brain.

John decided that he could use a coffee to help himself think, so he went to a little café not far from Baker Street. _Or the coffee will make me go crazy and I'll throw myself under a bus once and for all, _thought John with a smirk. John strolled into the coffee shop and bought himself a cappuccino, his thoughts still racing. He picked up his coffee and began for the exit, but was stopped by a blonde waitress.

"Hi," she said with a broad smile.

"Hello," replied John tiredly.

"So...John," she read off of his coffee cup, "do you want to sit with me for a minute?"

John thought for a second. He really did need to get back to Sherlock, but he supposed that a couple minutes of flirting wouldn't hurt.

"Sure...Elle," he read off of her name tag.

They sat down and she began a meaningless ramble of words that included things about her life and her favorite things to do, as well as a few questions that caught John off guard. He didn't really care about the blonde girl in front of him, he just wanted to kill some time before he had to face Sherlock again.

The blonde girl, Elle, went on and on until finally stumbling on THE question.

"So," she said with a seductive bat of her lashes, "do you have a girlfriend?"

John was taken aback. How had he not noticed that she was trying to sleep with him? _God, _John thought. _Am I really that dense? _He wanted to let her off easy, but with all the chaos that had just ensued, he really just needed to be blunt.

"No, actually, I don't." Her smile looked a little too hopeful. "But, I have just realized that I am in love with my flatmate whom I have to get back to. I just hope he's not dead by the time I get back," John added sarcastically. She gaped at him as he dashed out of the café.

John ran for home, checking his watch as he went.

"Shit," he muttered. He said that he would be back for dinner, but it was already half past nine. John ran as fast as he could, but with all of the people out that night, it took John seven minutes to make what was normally a three minute run. John banged through the front door of 221B, taking the steps two at a time.

"Sherlock," John yelled at the top of his lungs. He had reached the door to his flat, pushing it open harder than was necessary.

"Sherlock," John shouted again. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

And then he looked around the room. He saw the Advil scattered across the floor, the bottle had clearly been dropped. He saw what had been vomited up, basically nothing but medicine and stomach acid. John's stomach churned in fear.

"Sherlock," John cried as loud as he could running past the bathroom and into Sherlock's room. He opened the door with a loud crash, still not seeing Sherlock. He stood in the doorframe, his hands knotted in his hair. John Watson, former Army Doctor John Watson was panicking.

That's when he heard it; the bath water was running. John sprinted to the bathroom jiggling the knob to no avail. John began shouldering the door, hearing Sherlock's groans of pain just on the other side.

John was using his bad shoulder, and it was sore long before he realized it. In frustration, he kicked it, the door collapsing in on itself and breaking at the hinges. Bloody water was spilling over the edges of the tub, Sherlock laying in it. He was still clutching the kitchen knife that he had used to cut open his wrists.

"Oh my God, Sherlock," John whispered. He splashed forward into the blood stained water, ruining his Levi Strauss blue jeans and his favorite brown jumper. John grabbed the knife and cast it aside. He pressed his hands to the cuts on his flatmate's wrists, hoping that the pressure would stop the bleeding. John may have been an army doctor, but seeing his flatmate like this made him lose all of his medical knowledge.

"John, is that you dear? What's with all the ruckus?" the landlady, Mrs. Hudson called from the entrance to the flat.

"Mrs. Hudson! Dial 9-1-1! NOW!" John shouted at her.

"What's going on dear? Is everything alri- oh dear Lord. I'm going! I'm going to the phone!" Mrs. Hudson ran as quick as she could to the phone and dialed the 9-1-1 operator. She was in hysterics, but she managed to give out the information that they needed with John's help. Within minutes, Sherlock was being rolled away on a gurney, the Emergency Medical Response siren blaring as they sped of to St. Bart's. Mrs. Hudson broke down crying while John stared after the ambulances. _It's all my fault, _he thought.

o0o

Four days later, Sherlock was released from the hospital, but John was still told to keep a close eye on him. Sherlock had had his stomach pumped and his wrists stitched and bandaged. He had been put on plenty of morphine so he slept while they cleaned out his system. He had needed a blood transfusion as well. Sherlock was still very heavy hearted when he left the hospital.

John picked him up from St. Bart's and they took a cab back to the flat. Sherlock was silent the whole drive home. Once they reached 221B, John hugged him. Sherlock was stunned. He had not expected a hug from John.

"Dear God," John said with a sniff. "You have no idea how glad I am to not be picking you up from the morgue."

Sherlock was silent. They mounted the stairs to their flat, which John had managed to tidy up in-between infirmary visits, just for Sherlock's return home. John made Sherlock sit on the couch while John pampered him with food and tea. John flipped on the telly and brought Sherlock blankets and a pillow. Finally, John sat down with Sherlock.

"John, I really don't need all of this," Sherlock gestured at the mountain of things John had brought him.

"Sherlock, I just want you to be happy. Please, don't ever try to kill yourself again. You'd kill about half of me if you succeeded," John said tearily as he scooted closer to his flatmate.

"But, John, I thought you didn't care about me that way. I thought you rejected me," Sherlock said confusedly.

_Damn, _thought John. _Is it really that obvious? _

"Sherlock, I only reacted that way because I was trying to deny my feelings for you," John whispered as he placed a hand on Sherlock's face, caressing his cheek. "The truth is, truth is, Sherlock, I'm in love with you. I have been this whole time, I just haven't been able to admit it until now. And Sherlock, I'm fine with being gay, with being in a relationship with a man, as long as that man is you."

Sherlock was once again stunned, his mouth slightly agape. He was the happiest person on earth, he just didn't know how to express it.

"John, I...I..." Sherlock stammered.

"Bloody hell," John muttered, and then leaned in to kiss the consulting detective, _his _consulting detective. He smiled against Sherlock's lips.

They broke apart, both grinning like fiends.

"Sherlock?" John needed to get his attention.

"Yes John?" Sherlock beamed at him. John beamed back.

"I think I love you," John whispered.

"I think I love you too John," Sherlock whispered back.

The rest of their day was filled with whispers and giggles and "I love you"s, as well as compassionate caresses and slow, sweet kisses. Both men were happy as could be, all memories of Sherlock's suicide attempt forgotten.


	6. Love Like This

**Disclaimer: Don't own the characters; they're Sir ACD's. These belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I just get to play.**

_A/N: Hey lovelies. I know it's been forever, and I'm really sorry. I've just been super busy with life, and school is starting too. Sigh. Anyway, here's the first happy chapter ever. Hope it's okay. Feedback is always welcome! And on that note, enjoy the story!_

Love Like This

It had been a week since Sherlock and John had declared their love for each other. Every day since Sherlock had been discharged from the hospital was soft and sweet, and Sherlock had no intentions of attempting to kill himself again. Both men were happy with the breakfast making, telly watching, cuddling relationship that they had, but secretly both wanted more. Neither were ready for sex. No, that was a commitment to be made later, but they both wanted to make their relationship public.

So it was decided, John was officially gay and ready to express it openly. It had been a drastic change for him, loving a bloke, but he couldn't deny the fact that he loved Sherlock. Sherlock was sweet and gentle but hot and heavy all at the same time. Sometimes it could be quite disorienting, but John loved it all the same. The little that he had been able to explore Sherlock's body didn't tell him much, but he knew that Sherlock was beautiful in every way possible. And he made fantastic eggs benedict.

_One week, I'm as straight as an arrow, and the next, I'm head over heels in love with a man. How much weirder can my life get? _thought John. John cringed at the next couple thoughts that entered his head. _Never mind. A lot. _

John didn't know how to ask a guy out, let alone Sherlock Holmes, so the only person he could think to contact was his lover? boyfriend? Well, his whatever's older brother. As intimidating as Mycroft Holmes could be, he was probably the best man to go to for gay relationship advice, seeing that he was married to DI Lestrade. John picked up his mobile and dialed Mycroft's number.

"Hello," came the elder Holmes's pompous voice.

"Hi Mycroft. It's John." John fiddled with his fraying jumper hem nervously.

"Oh. Dr. Watson. How are you?"

"I'm fine Mycroft. Please, call me John. I have a question for you."

"Well, ask away." John could hear his smug smile through the phone.

"Your brother and I are in love and we haven't made our relationship public, but we want to, but we don't know how. I'd like to ask him on an official date, but I'm not sure what I should do to impress him. I need your help." John inhaled deeply; he had been speaking very quickly.

"I see. John, why did you come to me, of all people?"

John stuttered, "W-well, I figured, you've been married to a man for a little over two years. And you're his brother. You know him best."

Mycroft gave a clipped laugh. "John, I may be Sherlock's brother, but that doesn't mean that I know him best. You are the only person he has ever opened up to. You know him better than I do." Mycroft hung up the phone.

John panicked for a few seconds, not sure of what to do. He took a couple deep breaths and got his breathing under control. He decided that he would just ask as soon as Sherlock got home.

o0o

John had busied himself with tidying up the flat, since no one ever did it, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock slammed the door shut.

"Those idiots! That case was so simple, and then Anderson had to go and tamper with the evidence. Now Lestrade doesn't believe my claim. And I KNOW I am right."

"Christ Sherlock. You scared the hell out of me. Please announce your arrival BEFORE you slam the door." John shook his head impatiently.

"Who put that bastard in charge of forensics anyway? Stupid Anderson," Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock, I understand, Anderson is an idiot. But the case is now closed. Can we please forget about it and move on with our lives together?" John tried to sound as empathetic as he could.

"Hmmph," Sherlock pouted and plopped down on the couch, crossing his arms. John sat next to him.

"Cheer up, Sherlock. Hey, I have something fun we can do!" No response. "I reserved us a table at a restaurant named 'L'ardois.' Sounds like it'll be good."

Again, no response.

"Come on, it'll be fun. Please Sherlock?" Silence.

John pulled out the last trick he could think of. "Don't you want to be seen as my boyfriend Sherlock? Don't you want to proclaim our love to the world? Or are you too ashamed of me to do that." John turned away dramatically and made a loud sniffing sound.

That made Sherlock talk.

"Oh, John, please don't cry. Of course I'm not ashamed of you. I love you for goodness sakes. I'll go to dinner with you. John, please turn around. I'm sorry." Sherlock softly embraced John, genuinely feeling guilty for hurting him.

John turned around with a wide grin spread across his face. "Knew that would work," he said proudly.

Sherlock faux hit him. "You git. Go get dressed." John continued to beam.

o0o

Twenty minutes later, both men exited their taxi in front of the restaurant. John threw a generous amount of bills at the cabbie, and they walked in together. Neither quite knew what to do, so they clasped hands as John verified their reservation. They were sat at a quaint little table looking out over the shop covered boulevard on which numerous cabs passed in opposite directions.

"Will this table work for you?" asked a smiling brunette, clearly happy for the cute couple.

"It's perfect, thanks," John replied, flashing a quick smile of his own.

"Fantastic. I'll have Genevieve come over to take your order in just a minute. In the meantime, have a look at your menus, and I hope you have a lovely evening." With that, she traipsed away, getting ready to help another group of customers that had just walked through the door. They chatted about what they were going to order before a petite red head walked up to them in a waitressing outfit.

She snorted at the sight of them, and both John and Sherlock exchanged the same look of uneasiness.

"What'll it be," she asked sassily.

"Umm, I think we'll both have the Taupenot-Merme Gevery-Chambertin." John had trouble pronouncing the words, and Sherlock sunk a little further into his seat every time the waitress rolled her eyes had his poor French skills. She was clearly not only mocking John, but being outwardly rude about their homosexuality.

"That all," she droned.

"And we'll share desert crepes, whatever their called."

"No dinner?" she asked sharply.

"Nope, just wine and desert."

"Kay. It'll be out in a bit." She stalked away poutily, but what she had to pout about, neither Sherlock or John knew.

"Well that was a bit rude," John said, annoyed.

"I'd say a bit more than just a bit," Sherlock replied quietly.

John noticed Sherlock's position: he had closed in on himself physically and mentally. It took John a minute to realize what was happening. Sherlock was embarrassed. Quite frankly, John was too, and a bit angry, but clearly, the waitress had made Sherlock very uncomfortable.

"Hey, don't pay attention to her. She clearly has no respect for anyone that isn't exactly like her. I wonder where she went to waitressing school, let alone finishing school," John joked, but Sherlock bowed his head even further. John was unsure of what to do.

"Sherlock-" John placed his hand atop Sherlock's, but his flatmate pulled his hands away and held them in his lap. John was infuriated by the waitress, but he didn't want to cause a scene. He was utterly and completely torn between leaving the restaurant or screaming at the waitress and then finishing his date. Instead, he just sat there lamely.

Clearly, their date had made the news in the kitchen, because when a waiter came by to pour their forty-four dollar bottle of wine for them, he slopped liquid everywhere and left with a contemptuous expression.

John mumbled an apology to Sherlock and reached for his wine glass, gulping it all down in one motion. John's lungs and heart had been replaced with white hot inferno, his chest cavity burning with rage. He fought so hard to contain it.

When the next waiter that came by nearly dropped their food because he was so disgusted by them, John had had enough. Sherlock was completely silent, swishing his wine around slowly in it's glass, looking into his lap. Sherlock was very hurt, and John could only think of one thing to do.

John stood up, despite Sherlock's tugs on his coat-sleeve and his "No, John, forget about it"s. He opened his mouth to speak, but the brunette that had showed him to their table beat him to it.

"Wait staff, can I see you at the front right this second please?" she said stiffly, clearly not happy. The waiters and waitresses scurried up to podium unbelievably quickly.

John continued to stand, watching the event with much curiosity. Once she was done with the little conference she had just held, she strode to their table briskly, the waitress and two other waiters walking behind her like baby ducklings.

"Look, I don't need you to-" he began, but she silenced him with a look.

"I came over here with my wait staff to have them apologize to you for their uncalled for behavior tonight, and to tell you that your wine and your desert are free tonight, because of them." She smiled at the couple apologetically.

John, dumbstruck, sat back in his seat with a quiet, "Oh."

"We will be talking later, you three. Hope for the best, because tonight may be your last night with behavior like that," she scolded them menacingly, then flashed one last smile at the two men and walked away.

The three waiters apologized and cleaned up all of the mess that they had made before pouring the two fresh wine and bringing out warm crepes to try and fix what they had messed up. John thanked them curtly and they scampered away.

John felt a bit better about the whole thing, but Sherlock continued to stare down at his plate.

"Sherlock?" John questioned.

"You have strawberry jam on the corner of your mouth," Sherlock replied quietly.

"Oh." John blushed, his hand flying to his face.

Sherlock's hand shot out to push John's away, and John looked at him confusedly. "Let me get it," he said.

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John, removing all traces of strawberry jam from his lips.

John beamed brightly. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Color flooded Sherlock's cheeks. "Always, John."


	7. The Purpose of a Virginity

_**Warning:**_ Smut

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any way, shape, or form. If I did, he'd be in my bed right now. Not making a penny off of this work, so please don't sue. Just having fun!**

_A/N: Oh my god guys, it's been ages since I posted. I'm SOOOOOO sorry. I've had a lot of school work to do and it's been really stressful and blah. Anyway, It probably looked like I wasn't gonna finish the story, huh? Psych! I am. So, this is my first time writing smut, and damn, it was hard to do. I mean, I wanted it to be romantic, but I wanted it to be really sexy at the same time. I feel like I made it too...technical. Let me know. Feedback is welcomed and loved, and on that note, enjoy the chapter (it'll take me less time to post the next one *hopefully*)._

The Purpose of a "Virginity"

Sherlock and John left the restaurant feeling full, warm, and content. They held hands and giggled, not even bothering to stop a cab to get home. Their leisurely stroll home was filled with quiet "I love you"s and chaste kisses, but in John's mind, it wasn't enough.

Seeing Sherlock be so forward that night, he couldn't help but want more of his partner, _all _of him to be exact. John had his mind set on sex, having been a veteran to doing it in the army. He didn't see it as that big of a deal, completely forgetting Sherlock's part in what he hoped to happen.

John pulled Sherlock by the coat-sleeve once they reached the front door of 221B. John dragged his flatmate up the stairs, not sure how much longer he could restrain himself from ravishing Sherlock on the spot.

The men tumbled into their flat ungracefully, slamming the door behind them. John immediately shoved Sherlock up against the door they had just come through and began slowly grinding his hips into Sherlock's front, tugging at the younger man's lips with his teeth.

While Sherlock enjoyed the attention he was getting, he wasn't quite sure of how to respond to it. He had done many things in his life, one that wasn't included in that list, though, was sex. He had always considered it too basic of an animal instinct to bother with the practice. Occasionally, he had needed the company of his hand, but mostly in his pubescent years when all of his hormones had hit him full force. Sherlock simply let John touch him while he stood by.

Eventually, John noticed Sherlock's lack of a response to his ministrations; his arms hung limply by his sides and his lips were parted slightly for John to abuse in any fashion he chose. John's first instinct was to take a step away, but if they were going to be in a relationship together, they needed to learn to work things out. John did initially step back slightly, but just enough to look his partner in the eye.

"Sherlock?" John questioned.

"Yes John," Sherlock replied shakily; this was one of the few situations he hadn't been able to deduce in his lifetime.

"Do you not like what I'm doing?" John asked, masking his hurt. _Or, perhaps, he just doesn't know what to do, _John thought to himself.

"I do, but...I have something important to tell you." Sherlock looked down at his feet.

John placed his index finger underneath Sherlock's bowed head, pulling the brunette man's eyes up to meet his. Sherlock was still.

"You can tell me anything, you know that." John felt a bit wary.

"I know, it's just that...well...this is embarrassing to me." Sherlock bit his lip with uncertainty.

"Please tell me. I need to know what you're feeling." John tried to probe into the impossible mind and soul of his flatmate and lover, Sherlock Holmes.

"I-I'm...I'm a virgin, John." Sherlock turned his head away the instant he said it. John was taken aback.

"Oh...oh. I should have guessed." John took another step away from Sherlock. "Dear god, how could I not understand that? Christ, I'm so sorry Sherlock. I'm so embarrassed; that was extremely inappropriate. Shit. I'm so sorry," John rambled.

Sherlock looked up at his love, too far away from him. He stepped forward and cupped John's face, pressing his lips to the shorter man's before he could protest.

Once they had broken away, Sherlock whispered to John, "You know that I love you and that I trust you. I just need a little more time to get used to the idea. It's still kind of foreign, relationships that is, to me."

"I understand," John mumbled, looking ashamed.

Sherlock placed a finger over John's lips before he could say anything else. "There is no need to feel sorry for your behavior. It is human instinct, ingrained into the chemistry of our brains to want to have sexual relations with our 'mates,' for lack of a better word."

"So, you're not angry with me?" John asked hopefully.

Sherlock kissed him softly. "Of course not John. How could I be angry with you?"

John giggled. "I don't know, I am kind of flawless, aren't I."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't get me started, John Watson. I'm getting sleepy. Would you like to come lay down with me? Er- without the sex, that is." Sherlock gave a sheepish smile.

"I would be delighted." John smiled brightly.

Sherlock led John to his bedroom, quietly clicking the door shut and tossing the sheets back so they could climb in. They fell softly into bed, John curling himself around the detective as soon as they were situated. John combed his fingers through Sherlock's curls as the taller man fell asleep, snoring gently. John thought about taking their relationship to the next level as he absentmindedly continued stroking the detective's hair. John wanted it so much for them, but he wanted to make it special for Sherlock. He decided that he would do everything in the world that he could to make their special evening as romantic as possible, as soon as Sherlock was ready. The younger man rolled around, his face level with John's chest. The consulting detective's breath was warm and ticklish on John's skin. John began getting drowsy, staying awake just long enough to hear Sherlock's faint "I love you," and smiling to himself. Then he faded into peaceful blankness.

o0o

John woke to an awful crunching sound, not sure where it came from or what _it _was. John looked down to see Sherlock with a bloody nose, startled into silence. John automatically yanked Sherlock out of bed and dragged him to the bathroom.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. What are you doing breaking your nose at 2:03 in the morning?" John said lightheartedly, but full of genuine concern.

Sherlock scrunched up his face when John touched his nose. "Ow, John, careful. That hurts." John backtracked and just observed with his eyes.

"You punched me," Sherlock stated blatantly.

"WHAT?" John squeaked.

"Yes, you punched me. You were thrashing about, and I wasn't sure what to do, so I started tapping you and shoving you a little. Then, you rolled over top of me and punched me in the nose. I think you might have broken it."

Then it dawned on John: he had had a nightmare.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were trying to wake me." John looked away, blushing out of embarrassment.

Sherlock realized that he was uncomfortable. "John, it's not that big of a deal. I'll be okay. See?" Sherlock rinsed away all of the blood, the only damage visible was very large and very dark bruise forming around his nose.

"See? I'm fine," Sherlock smiled proudly. "C'mon John. Let's go have some tea."

Sherlock led John out to the couch, flipping on the telly as he went, making John sit while Sherlock made tea. He came back with two steaming mugs, plopping down next to John once he reached the couch.

"Are you sure you're fine?" John was still concerned.

"Yes John, I'm perfectly fine."

There was a pause; none could think of what to say next.

Sherlock beat John to a conversation starter.

"John, you remember what happened last night, right?"

John groaned. "Don't remind me."

Sherlock ignored him. "Well, I really thought about it, and I actually think that I am ready, I just wasn't completely sure last night. I had a dream about us. It was spectacular."

John was awestruck at how fast Sherlock could change his mind.

"Oh, well, that's good. I guess. We can plan a special night sometime soon, then," John said, clarifying the idea with his partner.

"I would love that John." Sherlock smiled at him. John just sipped his tea.

The two snuggled up together with their warm tea, underneath a blanket at 2:11 in the morning, watching infomercials until regular morning telly came on.

o0o

Three days later, Sherlock was out of the flat, probably whipping some poor dead bloke in the St. Bart's Mortuary, so John took the time to prepare a romantic dinner. He couldn't decide between filet mignon and pork chops, so he cooked both meats. He wiped his hands on his jeans and checked the potatoes he had put on; they were nice and soft, so he strained them and took to mashing them.

John started hearing an awful hissing sound from the oven, and discovered that the pork chops had been burnt beyond saving. "Damn it," he muttered to himself as he tossed the burnt meat. _At least I still have the steak, _he thought. With that, he checked it, and upon finding it perfect, moved it off the heat of the stovetop. John returned to the potatoes, adding a pinch of pepper and a pat of butter. John placed the meat on the table with a bottle of A.1., something John had never had nor heard of. He scooped the potatoes into a bowl, splattering Sherlock's favorite jumper of his with butter.

"Shit!" John exclaimed. John continued to mutter as he set the potatoes and the extra butter on the table. John then strained the peas and placed them in a bowl as well, setting them next to the table.

John began setting the table: two plates, two forks, two knives, and two napkins. He hustled over to his computer, reading the next paragraph in a Cosmopolitan article titled "How to Plan a Romantic Dinner."

"Add a candle for a soft, sensual glow," John read aloud. "Right then, a candle."

John roamed about the flat until he found a nice white candle, placing it in the center of the table. He pulled two wine glasses out of one of the kitchen cabinets and poured some random brand of pinot noir into them, only half way full. John wanted Sherlock to be completely alert and competent the first time he had sex. It would make the whole experience so much better for both of them. That and John didn't trust himself with more than a single glass of wine. He had a weak stomach when it came to alcohol.

John returned to the stove, checking the gravy. It had began bubbling, so John turned off the heat and grabbed the handle of the pot. John realized immediately that it was a mistake, seeing that the handle was metal, conducting heat all the way to the end of it. John couldn't hold the pot for much longer than five seconds, so he dropped it. Gravy splattered all across the floor.

"God fucking damn it!" John bellowed. Hot gravy covered his front. He grabbed a towel and got down on his hands and knees, beginning the process of mopping up the gravy. Then there was a knock at the door.

"Umm, don't come in! I'm not ready." John automatically thought it was Sherlock.

"It's just me dear, what on earth is the matter this time?" Mrs. Hudson hurried into the kitchen to see John trying to wipe gravy off the floor with a dish rag.

"Oh dear, I'll help you." She ran down to her flat to get more ingredients for gravy and came back up in a flash.

"Mrs. Hudson, you're a lifesaver. Thank you so much." John breathed out a sigh as he threw the dish rag in the sink.

"Anytime dear. Now, go get changed. You don't want Sherlock thinking that this isn't a big deal for you."

"How did you-" John began, but was cut off by a loud tsk from his landlady.

"Do you really think I'm that thick, John dear? I've been around for some time; I know a couple when I see one. Now, go change," she added sternly.

"Yes ma'am," John called as he ran up to his room.

o0o

Sherlock walked into a dark flat that smelled of chicken gravy and steak blood. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, thinking, _I don't eat. _Sherlock changed his mind as soon as he saw John and the dinner laid out on the table. John stood at the end of the table, pulling a chair out for Sherlock. He could only gape in awe.

"Did-did you do all of this? For me?" Sherlock felt a warm fuzzy feeling spread through his veins.

"Well, I'd like to eat it as well, but yes. I did make dinner. Except for the gravy. I spilled the first batch, so Mrs. Hudson had to help me with the second." John's cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Sherlock walked over to where John was standing and pecked him before sitting down. "It's lovely John," Sherlock beamed. John turned a darker shade of pink.

"It was nothing love." John began serving himself.

o0o

Two and a half hours later, after much giggling and small talk, the men stood up and walked to the closest bedroom, which happened to be Sherlock's. They shut the door quietly and immediately drew themselves together; lips met feverishly, bodies pressed together tightly, teeth gnashed, hands clawed for purchase, and hips rocked together. It seemed that neither could work fast enough. Both kicked off their shoes, preparing for the bed.

John began undoing the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, breaking the kiss to give his partner the _Is this okay? _look. Sherlock simply nodded, and John placed his mouth over Sherlock's again. After reaching the last button, John pushed his favorite plum colored shirt of his lover's off the man's shoulders, helping Sherlock out of it. John ran his hands over Sherlock's bare chest; it was warm and smooth and sculpted with two beautiful pink, erect nipples. He loved it. John let loose a breathy moan.

John moved his mouth from Sherlock's to the baritone's jaw, his earlobe, his jugular vein, his clavicles, and back up to his lips. John gently pushed his lover back onto the bed, straddling him after they had gotten comfortable. Sherlock ran his hands over John's sides, slipping them under the hem of John's shirt and sliding it over the blond's head. Both men were bare-chested, Sherlock pale and sculpted, John bulky and tattooed. Sherlock caressed each tattoo with a feather-light touch, cataloging every one into the folds of his brain. John was beautiful, tanned muscled, and inked. It was all Sherlock could have hoped for.

John proved to be a good teacher and Sherlock a good pupil when the younger man took his turn kissing parts of John's body other than his mouth. Sherlock worked with his tongue and teeth as he suckled John's earlobe and the column of his throat. Sherlock forced his partner to roll over so that he was on top. He continued to kiss down his throat, reaching the shorter man's defined pectoral muscles, and decided to pinch his nipple. John groaned. Sherlock tried again, earning an even more vocal response from the older man. Sherlock tested his mouth on said erogenous zone; John's back arched as he breathlessly moaned his lover's name. Sherlock did the same to John's other nipple, getting the same response.

John rolled the two over again so that he was on top, and he performed the same ministrations on Sherlock, gaining louder moans since it was the most pleasure Sherlock had ever received from another human being. John continued to kiss down Sherlock's abdomen, admiring the brunet's toned lower body. John was faced with Sherlock's belt buckle, and began to remove the accessory, as it was in the way of John's mouth on Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock was enjoying the sensations that John was sending him, but a seed of doubt began to grow in Sherlock's stomach. What if John decided that this was a mistake after tonight? What if he didn't like having sex with Sherlock? Those questions plagued Sherlock's mind the whole time; he didn't want to lose John. But worst of all, what if Sherlock wasn't really ready for this? As soon as John had put his hands on the taller man's belt buckle, the consulting detective sat up and pulled himself away from his lover. He put his face in his hands and regained control of his breathing.

"What's wrong love?" John asked with concern, placing a hand on the baritone's shoulder.

"I'm afraid John. What if I don't like this, or you don't like this? What if one of us regrets this tomorrow? I couldn't bare the thought of losing you, much less _actually _losing you. And even worse, what if I'm not ready for this yet?" Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Hey, Sherlock, I know that I will love everything that I do with you, even if it's throwing food at each other. And I will never regret a single moment in my life that I have spent with you, because to me, you are worth all the time in the world. And if you aren't ready for this right now, we don't have to do it." John gave Sherlock's arm a reassuring rub and then embraced the younger man.

Sherlock looked up with awestruck eyes. John understood. John loved him and everything he did. Sherlock realized in that moment that he truly was ready, ready to have John to the fullest. He responded to John's reassurance with a deep kiss, laying back down and fumbling with John's belt buckle at the same time.

John broke the kiss and gave him a quizzical look. "A minute ago you weren't ready and now you want to take my trousers off? Are you really sure about this Sherlock?"

"Yes John. I want you," Sherlock replied breathlessly. With that, John climbed atop Sherlock again and continued kissing him as he pulled the consulting detective's belt out of it's loops. Sherlock helped John shimmy out of his trousers while John yanked off his socks. The older man was left with only his pants.

John did the same for Sherlock, yanking down his trousers along with his pants and socks. Sherlock laid stark naked on the bed as John took him in with his eyes. Sherlock was beautiful, his face flushed as he fought for control of his breathing, his body toned, and his member erect and purple, waiting to be pleasured. He was at least a good nine inches long. John gaped at his lover's size, not expecting him to be so big. _Well, I should still be able to handle it, _John thought, a little warily.

Sherlock looked up at John, raising an eyebrow as the blond man just stared. John regained his composure and moved forward, licking up the underside of Sherlock's cock, teasing the head with a swirl of his tongue. Sherlock practically shouted the words "Oh god." John took that to mean that he was enjoying it, so he took Sherlock's length into his mouth and struggled to keep his gag reflex in check as he reached the base of the consulting detective's cock. Sherlock gave another cry of pleasure.

John continued to torture Sherlock with a slow rhythm as he bobbed his head up and down the younger man's cock. Sherlock occasionally grunted and groaned, becoming more and more vocal as heat built in his core. John began bobbing faster, responding to Sherlock's moans. Sherlock was so close to the edge when John pulled off and sat up.

"W-wait, what? I was so close John!" Sherlock whined. John grinned.

"We're not quite done yet," was all John said. Then it clicked in Sherlock's head. He was the one penetrating.

"Ohhhh," was Sherlock's reply. John smirked at him as he yanked down his pants.

John wasn't as long as Sherlock, maybe an inch to an inch and a half shorter, but he was thicker, definitely, so he thought they evened out, allowing him to be more comfortable and confident with his size. His head was already beaded with pre-come.

Sherlock stared down at John's member, engorged with blood and standing fully erect. Sherlock pushed John over, gently, and moved to John's cock, not saying a word as he slipped the older man into his mouth, much to John's protest. John gave in after the first few slurps though. Yes, Sherlock was a very good pupil, a very quick learner.

Sherlock was enjoying himself, but wasn't sure of how much longer he could do it before he either choked or made John come, so he stopped and looked to John for approval of his fellatio skills.

"Jesus Sherlock, that was-that was great." John sighed.

"Well, I had a good teacher," he beamed. John beamed back as he pulled a bottle of Astroglide out from under one of the pillows. Sherlock looked at the purple bottle quizzically.

"Lube," John responded to Sherlock's unspoken question. Sherlock made an O shape with his mouth.

John poured a dime sized amount of the cold liquid into the palm of his hand and coated Sherlock's left hand in the stuff as he capped the bottle.

"What are you-" Sherlock began.

"I haven't done this in a while, so this is kind of the way you prepare a man for sex," John explained. Sherlock nodded in response.

John laid back and gave Sherlock a kiss before the consulting detective circled John's entrance with his index finger. The blond shivered with anticipation, nodding to Sherlock that he was ready. Sherlock slid his finger into John slowly, burying it up to the knuckle. John let go of a breathless moan as he nodded for Sherlock to do it again. He did, and continued this time, slowly. With another nod from John, Sherlock added his middle finger and picked up the pace a little. Sherlock unintentionally curled his fingers and touched John's prostate, sending a jolt of electricity through the older man, causing him to gasp with pleasure.

Sherlock stopped immediately. "Did I do something wrong?"

John chuckled and sat up a little to kiss the brunet gently. "No love, you just hit my prostate. That's a good thing," he added when Sherlock gave a startled look.

"I'm fine. Now keep going, please. Add another finger." Sherlock did as he was told, curling his fingers every now and again to touch John's prostate as the blond moaned and writhed beneath him.

John let Sherlock finger him until he felt that he was ready to have a cock fill him again.

"Sherlock, stop for a second. I'm ready." John breathed heavily as he grabbed the lube bottle again. He poured a little more into his hand and covered Sherlock's cock in the cold, slippery liquid. John then hooked his legs around Sherlock's hips and pulled the younger man forward slightly, just so that the tip of his cock touched John's entrance.

"Are you ready?" John asked.

"Are you?" Sherlock replied. John kissed him. Sherlock then thrust forward.

John let out a cry of pleasure and pain, loving the mix of sensations. "Are you alright?" asked Sherlock.

John giggled. "I should be asking you that."

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm actually great. I like being inside of you." Sherlock smiled a little at his lover. In response, John pulled himself down on Sherlock's cock again.

"Move, you bloody idiot." John smiled back at him.

Sherlock began thrusting away, slowly at first, but picking up the pace as he went. The friction on his cock was delicious, John was warm and tight. _The perfect way to lose my virginity, _he thought.

Amidst the thrusts were moans and groans, the calling of each other's names and the "Oh my fucking god's" from John. Both men were trying to hold on as long as they could, getting closer and closer to the blissful end of their first sexual adventure. With a few more thrusts and another stab at his prostate, John was coming, screaming Sherlock's name while covering himself, the sheets, and Sherlock with sticky, white semen. Feeling John's come splatter over his abdomen was enough to push Sherlock over the edge, crying out, "JOHN!" as he came, completing his first sexual endeavor ever. Sherlock rode out his orgasm and came to a stop.

As he pulled out of John, he saw stars and realized that he was really, really tired. He collapsed forward onto the sticky mess that he and John had made.

"How was that?" John asked as he began stroking the younger man's soft, black curls.

"Mmph," Sherlock replied.

"Sleepy love?" John chuckled.

"Mmhm," Sherlock mumbled as he began to doze off. John pulled the sheets up over both of them.

"Well, now you can no longer wear white at your wedding," John joked. Sherlock giggled a bit.

"Alright, I'll let you sleep love. Goodnight. Sweet dreams. I love you," John said before kissing Sherlock on the forehead.

Right before he drifted off to sleep, Sherlock heard John whisper, "My Sherlock." Then, the consulting detective was whisked away into wonderful dreams in which he and John were together twenty-four hours a day.


End file.
